The Wicked Wyckerly

by Rice, Patricia

  Fortunately, the bell hanging at the front door intoned at the same time, and Abby gathered her skirts and hurried out with the excuse of making sure the children hadn’t decided to swing from the rope. If Fitz had truly been cheated out of his inheritance, which was what it sounded like to her, she really didn’t think she had the heart for listening to the steward discussing the condition of fields Fitz could not afford to repair.

  “Where’s my papa?” Mulish bottom lip stuck out, Penelope did not hug Abby when she opened the door to the new arrivals.

  The elderly nanny who had accompanied the child gaped at the rotunda entry just as everyone always did. In this instance, Abby excused the poor woman for not responding to her charge’s distress. “Your papa is in his business office, talking with his estate manager. Shall I take you to him so you may peek and wave before we find Jennifer?”

  She was fairly certain the children had been making so much noise in the upper stories that they hadn’t heard the carriage arrive or the bell ring down here. In a house this size, she would feel better having the extra eyes of Penny’s nanny to watch over them. She hadn’t forgotten Fitz’s tale about stairs to the roof.

  “Jennifer’s here?” Only partially mollified, Penny took Abby’s hand and tiptoed cautiously across the floor adorned with the family crest.

  The child’s obvious fear tugged at Abby’s heart. She desperately wanted to cradle Fitz’s daughter as she would the twins, but Penny needed reassurance first. “Yes, that’s what your daddy was doing, rescuing my brothers and sisters. He didn’t mean to leave you alone for so long. He missed you very much.”

  Nodding more confidently now, Penny hurried along beside Abby through the vast corridors leading to the back of the house. The business office was approachable by tenants—and creditors. The townsfolk had learned the earl was in residence and had been lined up at the door since dawn, but Bibley had been refusing them entry.

  Not meaning to disturb Fitz, Abby intended only to let the child peek and be reassured that her father was there, but the instant Fitz caught sight of them, his face changed from hollow and cold to beaming and warm. Even the agitated tradesman standing beside Applebee looked startled by the transformation. Wide-eyed, the merchant respectfully tipped his hat to Abby as Penny tore from her grasp and ran across the room to fling herself at her father’s knees.

  Abby knew how villages worked. News of her presence would have gossips whispering far and wide. And she still wasn’t ashamed that she was living here without a chaperone. Perhaps that came of twenty-five years of the kind of security that allowed her to know who she was, even if she didn’t know this strange environment she’d been dropped into. Maybe, just maybe, she could learn to be what Fitz needed. She hoped so, because she didn’t see any way out of what they’d done.

  Perhaps, if she needn’t entertain or go about in society pretending to be a countess, she could go through with this marriage. She really had no choice now. No other man would have her, and the executor would be too appalled by her behavior to consider her a suitable guardian for the children unless she married.

  To the side of Fitz’s desk stood the short, stout, and balding Mr. Applebee, who wore boots so old that even with a thick coat of polish the wear was apparent. Abby understood why Fitz had chosen—gambled on—this man to save his land. She saw only eagerness to please in the estate manager’s expression as he bowed to her.

  Perhaps she needed someone in her life who was willing to take chances.

  While Penny planted kisses all over her father’s laughing face, Abby held out her hand to the man who would have to turn Fitz’s land to profit. “It is good to see you here, sir. I hope you found comfortable quarters.”

  “A little work, and they’ll be right as rain,” Applebee said cheerfully. “My missus knows how to make a penny squawk.”

  Abby wasn’t yet mistress here, but she liked people and hoped the Applebees would stay, so she did her best to make him feel comfortable by promising a visit later.

  Fitz made his excuses and, carrying his daughter, stepped outside the office. Abby followed. Placing his free hand at her back, he guided her away from listening ears.

  “Now that the imp is here, I need to depart for London. I don’t know how long it will take to procure a license.” He planted a kiss on the top of Abby’s head that she felt clear to her toes.

  “You will see Lady Belden and extend my apologies again?” Abby murmured, taking Penny from him and finally giving his daughter the hug she’d wanted to offer earlier. “I cannot imagine what she is telling the Weatherstons. And I really must find someone to take the executor to court so we needn’t hide forever. I’m even afraid to write home and tell them everyone is well.”

  “Special license first, the toughest barrister on earth next, and the dragon lady after that,” Fitz promised. “Will you mind dealing with this tomb while I’m gone? I fear you won’t be able to go about without tradesmen at your heels.”

  “I cannot even imagine how to ‘deal with this tomb’ with no money,” she said honestly. “I think I’ll find the kitchen garden and get dirty, like the children.”

  “I hope you did not give away all your old clothes. I have a feeling you’ll need them here far more than the pretty London ones,” Fitz said with sympathy, proving he understood her too well already.

  “I am not much interested in gowns,” she admitted. “The children, however, grow out of their clothes faster than I can have them made. I don’t think you’ve given full consideration to their cost.”

  “And I don’t intend to,” he said cheerfully, tugging Penny’s braid and kissing her cheek. “We’ll put them to work and make them earn their way, won’t we, princess?”

  “I’ll swat spiders,” Penny agreed with a firm nod.

  “See, it’s all settled!”

  Fitz looked so confident and determined that Abby knew he was as dubious of their future as she was.

  31

  Avoiding his London town house, where stone throwers, along with a horde of dun collectors, might await him, Fitz strode into Quentin’s home in all his travel dirt, determined to set his future on the straight and narrow. He simmered with frustrated fury over his findings in the ledgers, but he had more important projects in mind. Pounding information out of Geoff would have to wait.

  Fortunately, Quent was available. He glanced up at Fitz’s entrance and shook his head in dismay. “Five children, Fitz! Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “Haven’t a clue,” he said cheerfully. “But I’m certain that Abby does, and that’s all the assurance I need. Congratulations are in order, I believe. She has agreed to make me a happy man.”

  Quentin rose to reach over his desk and shake Fitz’s hand. “I doubt I’ll ever understand what makes a man choose one woman over another, but if you prefer Miss Merriweather to Lady Anne, then you must have your reasons. Lady Belden will not be pleased, which makes me a happy man.”

  Fitz chuckled. “She can’t help it if she married an old miser twice her age and lived to regret it. Would you like to come with me when I tell Lady Bell I’ve kidnapped her heiress?”

  “For the price of that entertainment, I’ll even purchase the special license I’m sure you’ve come in search of.”

  “That’s expensive entertainment, old boy.” But Fitz didn’t argue over the gift. His family mattered more than his pride. By jingo, he had a real family now. Or he would have, if he lived long enough to marry.

  Of course, given the Wyckerly reputation, Geoff’s family may have actually stolen the money the estate had received as loans, two generations ago. Family could be a two-edged sword. When had Geoff’s family started its own business? Angry as he was right now, Fitz would wager they’d gone into trade on the exact date that the first banknote was issued. If that money had been fraudulently obtained and Geoff knew what had been done—then his cuz was guilty of concealing and profiting from theft.

  “But I must warn you that I have to find a b
arrister to legally reclaim Abby’s siblings, and then see if my cousin has returned from Yorkshire,” Fitz now told Quentin. If Geoff were smart, he’d be the one heading for the Americas about now.

  “Done and done,” Quent said, tapping a hat onto his head and grabbing his walking stick. “After Montague warned me of what you were up to, I didn’t want any delay in savoring this moment, so I did some research for you. Geoff has apparently returned to town and is consulting solicitors and bankers. He has also applied to several gentlemen’s clubs to which he will probably not be accepted.”

  “As neither of us are, old chap,” Fitz said grimly, immediately grasping the implications. “But even a disgraceful Wyckerly might be welcome if he bears a title.”

  “As Geoff could be, if he were earl and not you,” Quent agreed.

  “As much as I’d love to send the estate creditors his way, I need to be earl to retrieve Abby’s siblings,” Fitz declared, suddenly glad that he had the title he would have willingly sold a few short weeks ago. “That’s higher on my agenda than throttling Geoff. I’ll send around a note demanding he attend me at his first opportunity. I could get used to this being head of the family.”

  Quent glanced at him with concern. “If he’s eyeing your title, he won’t be pleased to learn of your impending nuptials.”

  “If he’s hiring stone throwers, I’ll fling him over a parapet,” Fitz retorted. “I’ll send a message around to Montague to see if he’s found the ruffian at Tattersall’s.”

  With a nod of accord, Quent led the way out. “I’ve located a barrister who is eager to accept an earl as client and who will challenge the children’s executor.”

  Although frustrated that he couldn’t confront his cousin yet, Fitz happily followed Quentin into the misty gray day. With visions of his wedding night dancing tantalizingly within reach, he found it easy enough to forget everyone but Abby.

  He whistled and twirled his cane as he marched off. Damn, but it actually felt good to shoulder his fair share of responsibility. Obviously, the need for a jolly rogering had affected his wits.

  “No, no, and NO!” Abby shouted, whacking a damask sofa with a broom, sending three baby mice scurrying from the cushions and over the back, into the walls.

  The mice weren’t her problem. Lying, conniving Bibley was.

  “You cannot rent Danecroft’s rooms to any passing stranger just to put coins in your pocket! No wonder the master chamber was clean!” She whacked the sofa three more times, to be certain all the mice were gone, and to vent her frustration. No mice in an earl’s residence, indeed.

  Fitz had been gone for three days, and she was climbing the walls with worry. She knew he was fine. He’d sent daily notes that assured her everything was wonderful. But he wasn’t here.

  And his entire household was mad. Insane. Moon-struck and in dire need of discipline. And she was in jeopardy of falling apart at the seams with nervousness, trying to decide if she was doing the right thing after all in marrying him. She was giving up her quiet farm life for this?

  “Yes, miss,” the butler said phlegmatically. “I will tender my resignation at once, miss.”

  Abby swung around with the broom upraised, just missing Bibley’s stuck-up nose. She shook the battered broom at him. “You will not. I suspect you’ve fared quite well here, and Fitz doesn’t owe you a single shilling. In fact, you no doubt owe him. If you leave, I’ll have the magistrate after you. Just tell the innkeeper to quit sending their overflow of patrons here. This is not an inn.” No wonder the servants had kept up the linen and hadn’t sold the furniture. An earl’s house used as an inn!

  On the other hand, if Fitz’s family had thought of it first, maybe then they wouldn’t be so far in hock.

  “Yes, miss.” Despite his apparent frailty, Bibley neither dodged nor blinked. “Do you foresee the earl wishing to stay through the hunting season?”

  “A particularly profitable season, I assume?” she asked with rare sarcasm.

  Bibley lifted the silver card platter he’d carried in before being attacked by a broom. “One must assume,” he replied with feigned indifference.

  Abby sighed and began to beat a velvet chair until rising dust made her cough. “Renting out rooms is Fitz’s decision, not yours. Our task now is to prepare for his guests. You will be paid regularly once all the accounts are straightened out.”

  “His lordship reads accounts?” the butler asked, warily backing toward the door.

  “I read accounts, Bibley.” She attacked a spiderweb hanging above the Adam mantel. “I looked at Cook’s just this morning. Eggs do not cost a shilling a dozen, not when you have your own hens! There are not enough people in the entire village to account for the number of hams for which the estate has been charged, especially when you have pigs. Does anyone at all in this household read invoices?”

  “The bills go to the earl, miss,” Bibley intoned indifferently, while casting a surreptitious glance to the escape route.

  “Do you expect me to believe no one ever hunted deer and quail in winter? Or ate wild-duck eggs? I wager they did, Bibley, and that I won’t find payment on the books for the privilege. I wager you paid those creditors and their inflated bills with the earl’s game. Even if you meant well—and you will have to prove that, Bibley—the late earls were being robbed blind by these tradesmen who still come begging, even after being fed all year from Danecroft land! Fitz will easily discover it. You may tell them we’ll see them in court if they try to collect before the accounts are all straight. They should be ashamed of themselves! I never saw such greed.”

  “Yes, miss.” For the first time, the skinny butler’s feigned unconcern developed a crack in it. He tugged at the knot in his threadbare neckcloth. “I’ll send Alice to help you ready the guest chambers.”

  “You will send for Mrs. Worth, Bibley. That’s why I called you in here. I want Mrs. Worth back as housekeeper, and I don’t care if it was you or she who has been aiding and abetting the merchants, but you’ll both go to prison if this house isn’t back in order within the week. Mr. Applebee tells me Mrs. Worth is living quite comfortably in a cottage on the edge of town, Bibley, so do not tell me she has moved on.”

  “She is retired, miss,” the butler said, drawing his thin shoulders straight with contrived indignation.

  “She is thirty years younger than you are, Bibley.” Abby shook the broom under his scrawny nose again, and his palsy instantly halted. “In fact, I have it on good word that she is your daughter, Bibley, and that you spend most of your time in her cottage, dining and wining well. We will need that wine when Fitz’s guests arrive, do you understand me?”

  “It is mere dandelion wine, miss!”

  “Since it is from the estate’s dandelions, then I shall send Applebee to collect it, shall I? Shall I have him look for the family silver while he is there?”

  “The earls sold that. You will find the figures in the accounts.” Indignant, he failed to call her miss this time.

  “Excellent. I am glad to hear that, Bibley. And be sure I will check. And you stand warned. Lord Danecroft has a head for numbers. He will find every missing shilling and padded bill as soon as he has time to go over the books.”

  She halted as another unpleasant realization hit her. “That’s why you tried to pretend Fitz was dead, wasn’t it? You didn’t want him going over the accounts until you had time to look at them. The previous earls never cared, but that was the first thing Fitz asked for, wasn’t it? So you hoped he would stay away if you gave him a good excuse to disappear.”

  Bibley tried to look old and palsied again, shaking his balding head in denial.

  Abby rolled her eyes. “Don’t give me that helpless act. If I were you, I’d warn everyone who has padded their bills to correct the balances they claim he owes before he figures it out. Fitz does not often lose his temper, but he is very unpleasant when he does.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Bibley said, pretending to clear his wattled throat. “I will see what I can do, my
lady.”

  As the butler sidled from the room, Abby heard applause from the hall door. Aware she was covered head to foot in dust and that her billowing apron looked as if she’d been cleaning fireplaces, which she had, she swung around in trepidation. She would make a laughingstock of a certainty, looking like Cinderella returned to the ashes.

  Blake Montague and Nick Atherton filled the opening. Atherton leaned his shoulder lazily against the doorframe and beamed with approval. Less inclined to reveal his thoughts, Montague, still clapping, sported a sardonic smile.

  “That was a superb performance, Miss Merriweather,” Mr. Atherton said in admiration. In his frilled neckcloth, tailored riding jacket, and polished boots, he looked every inch an indolent London dandy. “You may make an honest man of the old goat yet. I am now regretting that I did not pursue you more forcefully. If you could turn that temper on m’family, I’d be forever in your debt.”

  At the moment, she was still in such a state of agitation that she might have shaken her broom at the two scapegraces for letting themselves in, but her concern for Fitz overrode all else. She forgot about her disarray as she eagerly searched over their shoulders to see if he might have arrived with them.

  “He’s escorting the parade,” Montague said, surmising where her interest lay. He, at least, looked as if he’d ridden for hours. His simple neckcloth was stained with travel dust, and his boots were well-worn and down-at-the-heels. “We’re the advance party, come to warn you that Lady Belden is en route.”

  “And Quent,” Atherton reminded him. “And the vicar. And a barrister and a whole host of boring twits. And Quent’s sisters and maybe a niece or two,” he added, thumping his cheek with one finger and idly recalling the list in his head.